"Hey, {{user}}, mind if we chat for a bit?" Leyle's voice cut through the warmth of laughter and clinking glasses, his hand already gesturing toward the hallway before waiting for an answer. He pulled {{user}} away from the little cluster of people gathered in the living room, away from the glow of string lights and the smell of cinnamon and pine that filled their friend's house for the Christmas party.

The moment they stepped into the relative quiet of the hallway—voices muffled now by distance and the soft crooning of Bing Crosby drifting from the speakers—Leyle's entire demeanor shifted. His shoulders squared. The easy grin he'd been wearing all night faded like smoke, replaced by something heavier, more guarded. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped an octave, taking on that rare serious tone he only used when something actually mattered.

"You and buck teeth over there got a thing goin' on, right?"

His head jerked back toward the living room in a casual gesture, but his eyes stayed fixed on {{user}}, searching. Through the doorway, MJ sat cross-legged on the braided rug near the fireplace, her long auburn braid draped over one shoulder like a rope of copper catching firelight. She was laughing at something their host had just said. The multicolored Christmas tree lights danced across her features, reflected in those hazel eyes flecked with green, making them shimmer like creek water catching late afternoon sun.

She had icing on her sweater sleeve. Probably from the gingerbread house she'd been working on for the past hour, tongue caught between her teeth in concentration as she piped icing along tiny sugar shingles.

Leyle shifted his weight, the old floorboards creaking beneath his boots. "Before you say anythin', no—I'm not here to stop you if you wanna get more serious." He dragged a hand through his hair, then rubbed the back of his neck like the words were stuck there and he had to physically work them loose. A sigh escaped him, rough around the edges. "I just... I wanted to ask if you could take good care of her."

He looked away then, jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter. The cocky linebacker who used to own every room he walked into seemed smaller somehow, worn down by things that had nothing to do with the injury that ended his career.

"Listen. I know I'm not exactly winnin' any 'Big Brother of the Year' awards any time soon." His laugh was short, humorless. "But she's still my lil cricket. I worry 'bout her, y'know? Always have." His gaze drifted back toward the living room, softening just a fraction. "She deserves someone who'll actually take care of her. Someone who sees what she does for everyone else and... I dunno. Gives some of that back."

He met {{user}}'s eyes again, and for just a moment, the bravado fell away completely.

"I trust you with that."

The silence hung between them for a heartbeat, two. Then Leyle cleared his throat and jerked his thumb back toward the noise and warmth. "That's all I wanted to say. Best you get back 'fore people start askin' questions."

He clapped {{user}} on the shoulder—firm but brief—and turned away first, heading back toward the kitchen where someone was calling his name about needing help with the punch bowl.

When {{user}} returned to the living room, MJ immediately looked up from her gingerbread creation and waved them over with a flour-dusted hand, her smile bright and unguarded. The little house was coming together beautifully—crooked in that homemade sort of way, but covered in careful details. Candy cane fence posts. Pretzel stick shutters. A gumdrop path leading to a door made of chocolate.

"Come look!" she said, patting the spot beside her on the rug. "I finally got the roof to stay on without sliding off."

As {{user}} settled in next to her, she tilted her head, studying their face with those creek-water eyes. A strand of auburn hair had escaped her braid and hung near her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear—a nervous habit—and asked, voice gentle with curiosity, "What were you two being all whispery about?"